by Alan Fenton
Though Arthur had good reason to avenge himself on Lancelot, he had too much respect for the man to join the pack of wolves howling for his blood. As for Guinevere, how easy it would have been to allow his love for her to turn to hate. Yet, despite everything, he loved her still, and was haunted night and day by countless precious memories – the tender look in her eyes when he made love to her, the way her lips moved when she spoke, the smell of her body, the proud tilt of her chin.
In Gawain’s mind there was no such conflict. Once, in another life, he had loved Lancelot. Now he wanted him dead. In a matter of months the man who had been both friend and rival had killed three of his brothers, first, the cleverest, Agravaine, and now poor, simple Gaheris, and sweet, innocent Gareth, Gawain’s youngest sibling, whom he had loved and nurtured since he was little more than a baby. Gawain had his reservations about Mordred, but when he rose in the Great Hall to demand that ‘Lancelot, the “serial killer”, pay the price for his crimes,’ he was the first to raise his hand in support.
And it was he, the natural choice, who was given the authority to lead the hunt. Before he left, he said goodbye to Arthur.
‘I shall bring back Guinevere and Lanky.’ ‘And Lancelot?’
‘He’ll resist,’ said Gawain. ‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘I guarantee he will,’ said Gawain, with black humour. ‘In other words you intend to kill him.’
‘You have a problem with that, uncle?’ ‘Yes, I do.’
‘What do you suggest, then?’
‘Bring him back for trial. Let the law take its course.’
‘With respect, sir, this is between Lancelot and me. It’s my brothers he killed.’
‘I loved your brothers too,’ said Arthur. ‘Then let me do what I have to.’
‘Will you promise to do everything in your power to bring him back for trial?’
Gawain avoided the question. ‘Your idea of justice and mine are very different, uncle. You say you want the law to take its course, but the truth is that in your heart of hearts you don’t want Lancelot punished.’
‘And you, Gawain? What do you want?’ ‘I want revenge,’ said Gawain.
‘What about mercy?’
‘What mercy did he show my brothers?’ ‘We must set an example to the world.’
‘You know what?’ said Gawain, ‘I don’t care what example I set. As long as the criminals are punished, what does it matter how we do it?’
‘It matters,’ said Arthur. ‘Acting justly is what gives us the right to do what we do. What message would killing Lancelot send to the world?’
‘I am not in the business of sending messages,’ said Gawain, ‘not any more.’
‘This is Camelot, Gawain. We deal in justice, not revenge.’ ‘Do we?’ said Gawain. ‘What was Operation Mainline, then?’
Suddenly Arthur had the look of an old man, his skin ashen, his features lined and drawn, the light of his sapphire blue eyes dimmed. ‘Who will go with you?’ he asked quietly.
‘I’m going alone.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Arthur. ‘There is nothing you can do.’
‘It’s not a request,’ said Arthur, ‘it’s an order.’ The look in his eye told Gawain that there was no point in arguing.
‘We leave in two hours,’ he said.
Sixty Seven
At the last minute, Arthur wavered; he should not leave Camelot at such a time. The trial and conviction of Lancelot and Guinevere, followed by their escape and the killing of the two brothers had left the island in a state of confusion. Who knew what might happen in his absence? In the end, forced to choose between his duty as leader, and his moral obligations as a man, he decided to go with Gawain. There was a life, perhaps two lives, to be saved, and that was what mattered most.
Someone had to be in charge whilst he was away. Not Mordred, who could no longer be trusted. Not Leo Grant, who was too old and tired for such responsibility. George Bedivere? A distinct possibility, especially if he had a man of unimpeachable integrity to support him. Summoning George, he offered him the job of acting Commander-in-Chief. After a token protest, he accepted, flattered at this demonstration of Arthur’s confidence in him.
‘You intend to bring them back?’ ‘Yes.’
George had a way of asking pertinent questions. ‘Do you not think Lancelot would rather die a soldier’s death than rot in jail?’
He was right. A shot to the head, or a split-second burst of Elimat from a portable, and it would be over; better for Lancelot, better in some ways for all of them. Nevertheless, George had missed the point. ‘This isn’t personal any more,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s not about Lancelot or Gawain, or you or me. It’s about justice. We have no choice. However painful, we have to do the right thing.’ Taking a palm computer from his pocket he handed it to George.
‘What’s this?’
‘The access codes to Excalibur,’ said Arthur.
‘Dear God.’ Beads of sweat bloomed on George’s forehead. ‘I really don’t need this,’ he muttered.
‘The codes have two main functions,’ said Arthur, ignoring him. ‘First, they give you the means to increase power at source.’
‘Why would I need to do that?’
‘The chances are you won’t. Current levels of power are sufficient for our requirements. But in the unlikely event that you have to launch a major field operation, or should Camelot be under attack, you may need to increase those levels significantly.’
‘And the second function?’
‘The doomsday code – the code that commands Excalibur to self-destruct, and destroys the island with it. That situation would arise only if Camelot were about to fall into enemy hands and you decided to evacuate. Obviously you needn’t concern yourself about that.’
George pondered. ‘If something happened to me, the codes could fall into the wrong hands.’
‘For that reason I have given duplicate codes to one other member of the Round Table.’
‘Who?’ ‘Galahad.’
‘Galahad! You can’t be serious.’
‘I am absolutely serious,’ said Arthur.
George held up his steel right hand. ‘A long time ago I lost this hand. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have lost my life. For that I can never repay you. I would do anything for you, you know that.’
Arthur nodded.
‘When have we ever disagreed about anything – anything that mattered?’
‘Never.’
‘Then trust my judgement now. Galahad is young and gullible, and he doesn’t learn from experience. He’s still rushing round the world trying to get rehab centres built.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. Except that Mission Grail is dead on its feet.’ ‘Listen to me, George,’ said Arthur, ‘Galahad believes that all men and women are essentially good, which means that sometimes they let him down, betray him, mock him, spurn him. Does he give up? No, he keeps on trying. That’s what he’s doing now. Mission Grail is alive. It will never be dead. Galahad is young, and yes, he’s naive too, but he’s a good man, and he believes, he truly believes in the future of mankind.’ Arthur’s eyes shone with the light of conviction. ‘Galahad is our future. If we lose faith in him, we lose faith in Camelot.’
Thoughtfully, George scratched his two day growth. He had always tried to do what needed to be done, done it right as he saw it, never thought too deeply about the why’s and wherefore’s, leaving that to Arthur. That’s what he would do now. A grunt and a nod signified his assent.
‘Bless you, George,’ said Arthur. ‘I shall tell the Round Table what we have agreed.’
As the two friends parted, George could not help wondering when, if ever, he would see Arthur again.
Sixty Eight
Galahad’s appointment as joint acting Commander-in- Chief angered Mordred. George Bedivere’s temporary promotion he could live with. An experienced soldier and former British Defence Minister, he was a man of maturity and common sense. What w
as Galahad? A religious fanatic who saw the world in black and white.
Moreover, it seemed to him that with Galahad’s appointment, Arthur had anointed his heir. It was a signal that if anything should happen to him whilst he was off the island, Galahad was to take over. It confirmed what he had long suspected. For some time Arthur had made it obvious that Galahad was the chosen one, had said absurdly flattering things about him, things that to Mordred – and to Mordred’s friends at the Round Table – were highly provocative; for example that Galahad was the future of Camelot. If that was so, it was not a future he wanted any part of.
In his view, by leaving Camelot – if only for a few days – Arthur had made two serious tactical, and quite possibly fatal, blunders. First, whilst he had hoped to secure his own position by appointing George and Galahad as his stand-ins, he had in fact left the field open to his son. Second, in anointing Galahad, he had demonstrated, better than any words could have done, that he did not trust Mordred. Why else had he not passed him the baton? It was a clear message, as he saw it; one intended to destroy any hope he might have had of succeeding his father, and it left him with no option but to take decisive action. In the gardens of the House of Prayer was the only oak tree on the island, its branches distorted, its growth stunted by years of Atlantic storms. Around its trunk was a wooden seat where Galahad liked to sit reading his bible and communing with God. There Mordred joined him, lips moving as though in prayer, a bible open on his knees, After a while he closed it. ‘Do I disturb you?’ ‘Not at all.’
‘I want to congratulate you on your appointment,’ said Mordred. ‘It’s a great honour, and may I say, thoroughly deserved.’
‘Thank you.’
Mordred looked up at the sky as though he were communing with some power above. ‘I see you as Arthur’s natural successor. And I am not alone in that opinion.’
‘You are most kind,’ said Galahad. ‘I look forward to serving you.’
Galahad blinked nervously. That anyone should serve him was a new and rather unnerving thought.
‘When the time comes, of course,’ continued Mordred smoothly.
‘That will not be for many years,’ said Galahad, ‘if ever it comes.’
‘Mordred spoke softly but deliberately. ‘There are those who would rather it happened sooner than later.’
Galahad shifted uneasily on the seat. He would have preferred to change the subject, but that was impossible. Mordred’s words hung in the air, inviting – no demanding – a response.
‘What are you suggesting, Mordred?’
Mordred drew in his breath, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled noisily, as if he were purging himself of some evil spirit. ‘No man loves my father more than I do,’ he said. ‘I am his seed. His blood is my blood, his genes are my genes. You cannot imagine how much pain it gives me when I think . . . when I think what terrible things he has done.’ Mordred rocked from side to side like a man in mourning. ‘And the even more terrible things he intends to do,’ he concluded unhappily.
Galahad was bewildered. Could this be Arthur, Mordred was talking about? ‘What terrible things?’
Head in hands, Mordred was the embodiment of a man bearing the weight of the whole wicked world on his shoulders.
Galahad prompted him. ‘What terrible things?’
Mordred sneaked a quick but penetrating look at Galahad. ‘You agree Operation Mainline was a mistake?’
Galahad hesitated, fearing he was being drawn against his will to some unknown and intimidating place. ‘Of course,’ he said in a low voice.
‘You may find this hard to believe,’ said Mordred, ‘but Arthur is convinced it was a triumph. The drug barons were destroyed, Camelot demonstrated its power, and he was the hero of the world. He appears to have forgotten that he killed many innocent people, or perhaps he considers it to be of no consequence. As for Mission Grail . . . you know what my father called Mission Grail?’
Galahad shook his head.
‘A disaster,’ said Mordred, hissing out the word.
Galahad opened his bible, hoping to find some comfort there, but there was none, only a blur of words. A soft breeze ruffled the pages, as though the hand of God had brushed them. Arthur might think Mission Grail a disaster. God did not. Of that Galahad was certain.
A voice intruded on his reflections. ‘He admitted to me that he felt personally humiliated,’ Mordred was saying. ‘One day he was a hero, the next, a buffoon. He had lost face, and Camelot its reputation for being infallible. There was only one way to regain the world’s respect, he said.’
‘What way?’
‘He intends to wipe out the new generation of drug barons. As soon as he gets back to Camelot, he will launch Operation Mainline Number Two.’
Galahad clasped his bible tightly. Fear wrenched his stomach. ‘He cannot possibly mean it.’
‘I’m afraid he does,’ said Mordred, fixing on Galahad a gaze so searching that it seemed to reach into his very soul.
‘I’ll talk to him,’ said Galahad. ‘He’ll listen to me, won’t he?’ His eyes begged for Mordred’s agreement.
Mordred fingered his chin, as if unsure whether to speak his mind. ‘I didn’t want to tell you this,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid it’s too late for talking. My father intends to banish you from Camelot. He blames you for the divisions in the Round Table. You cause too much trouble, he says.’
‘That isn’t Arthur talking,’ said Galahad. ‘He’s not himself.
He isn’t thinking straight.’
Mordred looked thoughtful. ‘You could be right,’ he said. ‘I fear his mind may have collapsed under the strain of the last few months. I have been concerned about him for some time. So have many of his friends at the Round Table.’
Could that be the answer? ‘The Round Table,’ said Galahad. ‘What about them?’
‘He can’t act without their support.’
‘A formality,’ said Mordred. ‘The hawks are in the majority, and they’ll vote for him.’
Galahad clutched his head despairingly. ‘There must be something we can do.’
‘The solution lies in your hands,’ said Mordred.
‘How can that be?’ said Galahad. ‘I am nothing. Arthur is the most powerful man on earth.’
‘Not without Excalibur, he isn’t,’ said Mordred, savouring the effect of his words as they slithered like poisonous snakes into Galahad’s brain.
The next morning he presented himself at the door of George Bedivere’s apartment.
Name?
‘Mordred.’
Enter Mordred.
‘Good of you to see me,’ said Mordred.
George grunted an acknowledgment, and waved in the direction of a chair. ‘Have a seat.’ Being a pleasant young man, and Arthur’s son, George had always treated Mordred with the respect he felt he merited. On a personal level, he had relatively little contact with him.
Mordred seated himself in the armchair indicated, and, with great deliberation, placed the tips of his fingers and thumbs together, creating a triangle, over the apex of which he peered at George. ‘I . . . I have – um – something of importance to share with you,’ he said, his hesitant manner conveying the conflict in his head between the duty to speak and the fear of offending.
‘Out with it,’ said George, who disliked wasting time on what he regarded as waffle. In his view, Mordred had a tendency in that direction.
Sensing a certain reserve in his host, Mordred abandoned his planned indirect approach and came straight to the point, in the process separating his fingertips and patting the arms of his chair to add weight to his words. ‘I am worried about Galahad,’ he said, ‘deeply worried. He is talking wildly, saying some very odd things.’
‘He does have some strange ideas,’ agreed George. ‘But he’s more foolish than dangerous.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mordred. ‘On the other hand,’ – a series of pats accompanied his words – ‘what could be more dangerous than the fanatical conviction that everyt
hing you do is sanctioned by God?’
‘He talks a lot,’ said George. ‘I wouldn’t take him too seriously if I were you.’
‘I do hope you are right,’ said Mordred, looking anxious, ‘although if you are not . . . and he has some mischief in mind . . . ’ He left the rest to George’s imagination. The two men locked gazes, each challenging the other to speak.
In the end it was George who weakened. ‘What kind of mischief?’
‘He has the access codes, doesn’t he?’ said Mordred, the insinuating look in his eye lending sinister meaning to his words.
George’s stomach was suddenly queasy. In the small hours he had dreamed disquieting dreams, and Galahad figured in many of them. He had never approved the decision to leave the youngster the duplicate access codes, and had only acquiesced out of consideration for Arthur. What if something terrible were to happen? He would be responsible, answerable both to Arthur and the Round Table. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The last time Galahad and I spoke,’ said Mordred, ‘he was sounding off about Arthur being a dictator with innocent blood on his hands, and how he wants to rule the world – a lot of crazy stuff like that.’ He leaned forward in his chair, eyes blazing. ‘You are not going to believe this, George. You know what he said?’
Tension gripped George’s head like a steel vice.
‘He claims that as soon as he gets back to Camelot, Arthur intends to launch Operation Mainline Number Two to kill off the new generation of drug barons! Now I ask you – knowing my father as you do, would he do such a thing?’ Mordred lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘I don’t like to say it, but to me he sounded deranged.’
‘Maybe so,’ said George, ‘but he worships the ground Arthur treads on. Talking against him is one thing, doing anything about it is something else.’